


Paris, 1978

by lferion



Category: Highlander - All Media Types, Highlander: The Series
Genre: Art Shows, F/M, Gen, Gift Fic, Pre-Canon, University, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 00:16:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17151707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion/pseuds/lferion
Summary: Duncan was not the first Immortal Tessa encountered.





	Paris, 1978

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brightknightie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brightknightie/gifts).



> Thank you as always to Amandr, for doing all the hard work for this fest, including putting up with late writers.
> 
> Thanks also due to the Usual Suspect for sanity checking & encouragement.

Duncan was not the first immortal Tessa ever encountered. 

And that’s not even counting the time Fitz happened upon her trying to study for an exam in a café, and charmed her into both lunch and dinner, with a life-drawing session in between. She did very well on that exam, and some lovely sketches in her portfolio/notebook. She never knew he was immortal, though she had her suspicions when she met him again several years later as one of Duncan’s friends.

Nor is it counting the time Robert and Gina decided to spend a day on the Seine, and chose her Bateau Mouche, paying a ridiculous sum to stay on round after round, hearing the same tour-guide patter as they canoodled, picnicked, admired the scenery, and canoodled some more, the very image of young lovers, though they were not as young as all that. Tessa was touched by their affection, and when they finally left in the silvery twilight at the end of her day, she was more than touched by the generosity of the tip they gave her. It not only covered her studio rent for the next month, it paid for a new grinder/polishing wheel. 

It certainly doesn't count helping Rebecca pick up spilled packages after they’d been rudely jostled into each other by a pair of thoughtless running boys, even though they ended up sharing a seat on the Métro afterward, and talked about meeting for coffee some time. 

Nor does it count the time Tessa ducked into Saint Joseph’s to escape a downpour, to be greeted warmly by Fr Darius, and given towels and tea and an antique heater to sit by for as long as she liked. 

Paris was, after all, a positive nexus for Immortals just living their lives. And none of those encounters, pleasant and memorable as they were — for she did indeed remember them all — changed the course of Tessa’s life.

* * *

No, the first immortal Tessa Nöel encountered could have modeled for L'Âge d'airain, once upon a time, though when she saw him she had no idea why she thought that. Too much nose, too much age, much too little unhidden skin or shape (the sculpture, after all, being entirely unclothed), for any obvious connection, but the conviction of it stayed with her. 

She was helping with the refreshments at the opening of the student gallery, the first show of the year, a display of the work done by the master and doctoral students over the summer session. It was her second year at university, her second year living away from home, responsible for herself. The first year had been terrifying and exhilarating at once, and she had learned, seen, done so many things she'd never done before, she'd never even properly imagined before. The art! The possibilities! The workshops and studios and glorious materials to work with! 

This year, she was more sure of herself, and, if not precisely more cautious, more aware of things that had consequences, results she wasn't interested in, and better ways of avoiding those, while still being open to the new and unknown. She also knew that here, among art and making art was where she wanted to be; and here behind her table with the punch and the seltzer and the wine, she could observe the people and the art and the interactions and see who was coming over toward her without surprise. 

She liked to guess who would want what before they got to her, and was quite pleased with generally being right in her guesses. Anne-Marie, at the table with her, didn't guess right nearly as often, but knew who many more of the people were.

There was one of those brief moments of quiet that happen in gatherings, and Tessa looked up from the punch bowl to see several people just arriving, all quite formally dressed; more formal than the 'dressy but not formal' that the show organizer had advised. 

Anne-Marie poked a sharp elbow into Tessa's ribs, "The Dean! and he's brought the _Recteur!*_ My goodness, they look like they are going to the Opera, not a student art show! Even if we _are_ the best art students in Paris." Anne-Marie had a piece in the show, and was never shy about her abilities. "I don't know all the others, I think they may be on the Board, but the one leaning on that beautiful stick? That Madame Sevigney is being so solicitous too? That's Dr Talhaern, he never comes to these! Oh my goodness!"No more details were forthcoming, for the entire group was advancing on them, in search of refreshment.

Wine, Tessa thought, a little desperately, the very best red that they had. They would all want red, and she would need to be careful of her dress, pouring. It was not one of her better guesses: only the Dean wanted red wine. She and Anne-Marie were quite busy for a moment, serving them. She could see Dr Talhaern waiting for the rush to subside.

It was a beautiful stick, the finely grained wood glowing a deep honey-amber, the silver head, bands and ferrule finely molded, details polished and sharp. But Tessa was more struck by the long-fingered hand that held it. The tension in the wrist, the way the knuckles whitened as he shifted it to take a step. Not entirely decorative, then.

"Punch, s'il vous plaît, mademoiselle," his voice was mid-range but somehow seemed deeper, with a faint burr like the last bit of rough on an edge before a final pass with the polishing cloth.

"Tessa," she said reflexively, "Tessa Noel." She could feel her cheeks heating. Her hands were steady as she dipped out punch and filled a glass for him. She made sure to hand it to him so he could take the handle and hold it without having to turn it.

"Thank you, Tessa Noel." His grave smile did lovely, interesting things to the lines on his face, making the impression of timeless antiquity all the more marked. "Have you a piece here?"

"No, not this year." (But she could have, in another year or so, if she was determined enough, daring enough.) "Anne-Marie does though." Recognizing an opportunity, Anne-Marie offered to show it to him, and Tessa let her go. The table was not that busy, and she would be back soon enough.

If she dared. If she were determined. A piece in this show, in any show. Not a dabbler, an amateur, a hobbyist, but an artist. A maker of Art, not just someone who studied it. 

… She wanted to capture that sense of him, that shape and sound and texture he made in her perceptions, bronze and indigo, steel and iron, oak-gall and parchment and ancient yew-tree. She felt the need in every part of herself, and at the same time knew that she could not do justice to the idea. She didn't know enough, have the tools or the skills or anything like the money needed for such a project. But oh, she wanted it.

Her family could not, would not support such a thing. Oh, they were delighted to have her going to the Sorbonne, getting a good education at the best University in France. They didn't even mind that she was hoping to study art history, art education, even art itself. Drawing and painting were perfectly acceptable things for a wife and a mother to do, when not busy with husband and children. And all the better for obtaining of same, in their eyes. But husband and children — in the way her relatives meant: traditional, maternal, rich or poor, city or countryside — were not at all what she wanted, not now, maybe not for a long time, if ever.

Her not-very-productive thoughts were interrupted by more people with glasses to fill, and she applied herself to the task at hand. Anne-Marie had returned smiling, and was cheerfully handing out cups and glasses at her end of the tabke. But the Dean's group was never entirely out of Tessa's attention, and she was oddly not surprised to see that when the Dean, Recteur, and attendant satellites left after a courteous turn about the displays, Dr Talhaern had detached himself from that orbit and stayed behind. 

Before long, he had made his way back to the drinks table, glass empty. He looked weary, ill somehow, though his back was straight and there was no hesitation to his uneven steps. Not part of whatever made the stick a necessity. He was looking in her direction, but she didn't think he actually saw her.

"Would you like me to get you a chair, sir?" Though Tessa wasn't sure it was the kind of ill sitting would help, it surely would not hurt. 

Now he saw her. "I thank you, but no, there is no need to trouble yourself." The thanks were genuine, and it had been a right thing to say. She took the punch-cup as he looked for somewhere to set it; Mayhap he would not sit, but he would rest a little standing, letting the stick take more of the job of balance. 

After a moment he sighed and said, almost to himself, but he couldn't have forgotten Tessa was there, so wanting to be heard, at least by someone, "Sometimes I wonder why I am still here, Why I come to these things. Why I keep going at all."

Tessa could think of several flippant answers — because the alternatives were worse; surely the punch wasn't that bad, other sophomoric quips — but they were not at all the right thing for this. She had no real sense of despair from him, only that peculiar weariness. Too little butter for the piece of bread, as one of her aunts would say, pressing a mug of her special tisane on the unfortunate peaked soul. But the tisane usually worked. Maybe some brisk enthusiasm was called for. Or not brisk, Something kinder, but no less forthright. "Why do you keep doing it?" she asked at the same quiet level, wanting to know, wanting to understand.

"Because the alternative is worse?" She gave him a startled look, not at all expecting to hear that from him. He went on immediately, "I'm not sure I know anymore, and I wonder if I should just … stop."

No, that wouldn't do at all. Aunt Agnes would never let her hear the end of it. 

"Oh no, you mustn't give up! Don't stop coming out to see things. You never know what someone might think of next." She hardly knew what she was saying, only that it mattered that he not give in. Impulsively, she took a phrase from Anne-Marie's lexicon, and dared, heart-felt, "Don't you want to see what I will make?"

He looked at her searchingly for a long moment. She stood tall and met his gaze, feeling all over again the tolling bronze-iron-oak sense that seemed to surround him. "I would indeed like to see what you will make," he said presently. "I shall look for your name in the coming years, Tessa Noel." A promise, a pact.

Still impulsively, Tessa set his punch glass down, and filled a wine glass with a generous amount of the best red. "This wine," she said, "is much better than the punch."

"Thank you," he said, accepting the glass and taking a sip. "You are quite correct: a distinct improvement."

He tilted his head to her in acknowledgement of more than just the wine, and she had the sense of a spark re-kindled. What kind of spark, to what purpose she did not know, but was never-the-less fiercely glad of it. And as she watched Dr. Talhaern make his slow way around the gallery, wine in one hand, walking-stick in the other, bending his gaze on the pieces displayed, she felt that same spark in herself. She would make that dream-sculpture a reality, somehow. Make and not just study. Take the metallurgy class, and the Welding for Artists workshop. The sculpting practicum, whatever she could find to teach her what she needed to know. If her family was upset, so be it. They would come around. Especially if she was good. And she intended to be better than good.

* * *

When Duncan MacLeod jumped onto her Bateau Mouche, three years later, she felt the same caught-breath amazement, the same ringing sense of shaped metal and bright fire. And so very much alive that he positively sparked with it. Of course she was going to let him stay on the boat. That didn't mean she was going to make it easy for him. What would be the fun in that?

 

*Chancellor of the University


End file.
